


Breathe

by McEnchilada



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fix-It, Getting Together, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, mentions of child abuse, pre- to post-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:12:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McEnchilada/pseuds/McEnchilada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breathe in.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls...</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>The spectacular Hawkeye!</i></p><p> </p><p>Breathe out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics included in the story are from Jimmy Buffett's "Escape (If You Like Pina Coladas)", because scones. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine, and I'd like to thank [Allora](http://mcartistic.tumblr.com/) and [Brianna](http://tuliey.tumblr.com/) for putting up with my while I wrote this, because I'm a pain in constant need of an ego boost.
> 
> Pretty brief mentions of child abuse, because Clint had kind of a really shitty childhood.

Breathe in, breathe out.

_If you stay still, he won't find you._

Clint kept his eyes screwed shut while he concentrated on breathing as quietly as he could. He had his arms wrapped around his legs and his forehead resting on his knees, his entire small frame flinching when he heard something shatter in the next room.

_Don't make a sound, and he won't come looking._

He was safe, here, behind a stack of old boxes in the closet. Safer than under the bed, anyway—and that was stupid, under the bed, because anyone would look there and he would look there and so it was useless, useless—and no one had found him here yet. Not Barney and not his mom and not his dad when he was shouting and stumbling and throwing bottles against the wall because the crash made Clint cringe. The closet was dark and cobwebby and when it rained it smelled like mildew, but at least it was safe.

_Hide, and he'll give up looking for you._

He didn't know where Barney hid. Clint vanished as soon as he saw his father's hand wrap around the neck of a bottle, clambering over the stack of cardboard boxes so he could curl up as small as possible in a corner, but he didn't know where Barney went. Maybe he went outside, to hide in the woods at the back of the yard—sometimes he came to bed smelling like dirt and leaves, and the hems of all his jeans would be stained with mud. Maybe he hid in one of the other closets, or in the attic or the cellar, but Clint didn't know.

Heavy footsteps in the hall made Clint whimper softly and try to curl further into himself, his narrow shoulders tensing.

_Stay quiet, stay hidden, and he can't hurt you._

Wherever Barney was, he hoped that no one would find him.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls..._

Clint took a deep breath, tugging at the hem of his ludicrously purple tunic one more time before he was due to step out into the spotlights and the stares. His clothes were baggy and uncomfortable, because he was still small and scrawny enough that people questioned how he was strong enough to draw his bow, but they were bright and striking and his.

_For your viewing pleasure tonight..._

The crowd was a large one tonight, full of parents chaperoning children and children shrieking with laughter and teenagers who had come to exchange popcorn-flavored kisses at the top of the Ferris wheel. He'd watched them all afternoon, walked among them in a t-shirt and jeans until he'd had to change into his costume. He'd wandered through the crowds and caught fragments of their lives in their conversations and in their expressions, and he'd been able to pretend, however briefly, that he knew what it was like to visit a circus with his family or with his friends or with a pretty girl who'd let him hold her hand.

_The greatest marksman the world has ever seen..._

He stood up straighter, inhaled a lungful of air that smelled like cotton candy and horses and the heavy stage makeup that Eliza the acrobat had painted him with. The people in the audience had quieted down in anticipation, but he could still hear the dull roar of their chatter and their laughter and their life as he fixed his face into that charming, cocky grin that hurt his cheeks. 

One of the jugglers held open the canvas flap that allowed a glimpse into the ring, into the light and the splendor that was really just gold paint over cheap wood.

_The spectacular Hawkeye!_

His fans were waiting for a show.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_I'm not paying you to ask questions about my business._

The air was humid, almost stifling, seeming to cling to his lungs and his throat with every breath. Sweat prickled along his arms and stuck his shirt to his back, stinging his unblinking blue eyes as he looked down the scope of his rifle towards a man whose name he didn't know, who was nothing more than the face in the picture he'd been given along with clear orders.

_You do what I tell you. You take him out._

Lying on the roof of a dance studio, he had the chance to see a lot more than what the picture had shown. Like the way the target laughed with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, his humor leading him vulnerable and bare and unashamed. Like the way his hair was thinning and his face was wrinkled, but his eyes and his stride and his stance all tried to claim he hasn't actually grown old. Like the way he helped a flustered woman juggling bags of groceries, or held out a hand to stop a child wandering into the road, or gave a polite nod and smile at an old man walking past him.

_Who he is don't matter. What matters is that I'm the one paying._

Once, Clint might have wondered if the man had a wife, or children, nieces and nephews he sent Christmas presents to every December. He might have wondered what this man had done that was so wrong, that warranted a bullet through his skull. Once, he might have refused the job, refused the client, refused the entire life he'd somehow found himself trapped in with no visible escape.

Now, he just peered through the scope, ignored the sun beating down on him like judgment long overdue, held the rifle like a weapon and not like it was a part of him, not like he held his bow.

_You're not the one making the calls here._

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_Mr. Barton, I apologize for the manner of this meeting. I'm Special Agent Coulson._

He clenched his jaw against the pain, breath hissing between his teeth while his hands slid across his thigh, fingers slick with his own blood. Other hands were on him, stranger's hands, pressing against the scarlet-painted flesh with a pressure that made fireworks explode behind Clint's eyes. The man in the suit was kneeling beside him, calm and cool and apparently unfazed by shooting a man in the leg.

_I'm with an organization called SHIELD. We would like to offer you a position._

He would have liked to tell the suit to shove his offer where the sun didn't shine. If he hadn't been worried about bleeding out, under careless drizzling clouds on an unremarkable street, he might've thought of something really memorable to say, telling the man what else he could shove where. But there was still blood staining his hands and the suit's sleeves and the sidewalk beneath him, and the world was starting to go a little grey at the edges, and the man's eyes were kind and blue and his voice and his hands were steady, and all Clint could think was that he was tired.

_We'd like you to come in so we can discuss the conditions of your employment._

Clint wondered vaguely who SHIELD was going to have him kill, if he would be given a name and a reason or just a picture and a location. He wondered if they were good guys who did bad things, or bad guys who thought they were doing good, or if they were just bad guys who didn't even fake righteousness or a noble cause. He wondered how many people they would have him eliminate before they decided that he was no longer of any use to them. He wondered, almost a little wistfully, if they'd let him use a bow.

The suit—Coulson—looked expectant, like Clint actually had any choice in answering, and smiled slightly when the bleeding man muttered, "You just fucking shot me."

_Welcome to SHIELD._

The world started to go black, and Clint focused on Coulson's eyes.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_Don't fuck this up, this time._

Clint inhaled and exhaled slowly, evenly, keeping completely silent as he watched over the halls of SHIELD from an air vent. He watched junior agents scurry by with their heads down and their shoulders up, watched the senior agents stride like they had the world to save, and sometimes they probably did. He watched men and women pass by underneath him, never looking up, never noticing he was there.

_Don't give them a reason to kick you to the curb, not again._

He liked the network of vents and shafts, liked their silence and their comforting closeness. He liked that he could use them to get anywhere in headquarters—though he wasn't creepy enough to visit private quarters, or stupid enough to try getting into Fury's office—and that no one else seemed to know that he used them. (Coulson probably knew, but Coulson knew everything.) He liked that he could hide himself away, and still look out at the bustle and business that was SHIELD, feel like he was actually a part of it instead of the observer he suspected he would always be, at least to some degree.

_Just once, don't ruin everything._

He chose to stay in the vents, stay out of sight, in the hopes that, maybe, he could be unobtrusive enough to remain. Maybe, if he kept himself apart, he wouldn't find a way to poison things for himself like he had everything else in his life. Maybe, if he stayed in the dark and watched from the grates and focused on his breathing and didn't make a sound, he wouldn't fuck up the one thing in years that had, somehow, given him just a touch of hope, a flame just bright enough to burn him to the core.

So he watched, and listened, and learned, and did his best not to matter enough for something to snatch this away from him.

_Haven't you messed up enough already?_

He hoped he'd be allowed to keep this one thing.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_Now I lay me down to sleep..._

Clint sucked in a breath that tasted like smoke and gunpowder and a tinge of blood, closing his eyes against the wreckage around him as if it would fix any of it. The street was in ruins around them, evidence of SHIELD's latest attempt to take down the most recent terrorist group that had paid enough for the loyalty, however fleeting, of the famed Black Widow. Some first visit to Budapest.

_I pray the Lord my soul to keep._

Beside him, squatting behind a burnt out car while they waited for another shot, Coulson had his eyes closed, hands clasped around the handle of his handgun and touched to his forehead as if he was praying. And maybe he was; SHIELD agents either lost their faith in humanity, much less an unseen omnipotence that witnessed everything and stopped nothing, or else believed strongly enough for it to become an anchor in every storm. Clint had once asked Coulson what he thought of it, and the senior agent had reasoned that a prayer never hurt, in case there was someone out there to hear it.

_If I should die before I wake..._

Clint thought about his mother teaching him a prayer to say before dinner, and one to say before bed. He thought about the pews in church being too high, and his father growling at him to stop swinging his feet during sermon. He thought about the preacher smacking his hand against the pulpit as he yelled about damnation and the wrath of god, and the way he always seemed to be looking straight at Clint when he spoke about the all-consuming fires of hell, until Clint could have sworn he felt the emptiness opening up beneath his feet.

Coulson opened his eyes, caught Clint watching him. He smiled, almost ruefully, and shifted his grip on his gun. "You a praying man, Barton?"

_I pray the Lord my soul to take._

"Every damn day, sir."

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_Keep running, because you can't slow down and don't know how to stop._

The air was icy, the frigid wind making his eyes water and whisking away every white puff of breath that he exhaled. The sleet that had been falling miserably for most of the night had stopped, clouds thinning just enough to let a watery, pale sun rise over the city. Clint had an excellent view of it from atop a warehouse, his bow in hand and an arrow on the string, waiting for Coulson's order.

_Forget what it was like not to run._

On the street below him, a headscarf not doing much to conceal her coppery hair, the Black Widow wove her way through people simply living their simple lives. It had been over a year since Budapest, and tracking her had been near-impossible at times, but now Clint was watching her down the shaft of an arrow. He could hear his handler breathing over the comm, and unconsciously matched his own rate of breathing as he waited. His eyes tracked the woman, beautiful and deadly and untamable as the sun, through crowds that grew thinner the farther she walked from the center of the city.

_Forget what it meant to be more than just a weapon._

Clint tried to ignore the quiet voice in the back of his mind, the voice that whispered for him to put down the bow, to go against Coulson's orders for the first time since he'd joined SHIELD and became a person again. He tried to concentrate on the shot he'd been taking, tried to forget the kindred spirit he'd found in the woman—Natalia, then, bold and brilliant and burning—all those years ago, tried to drown out anything except orders when the Widow came to a stop, away from civilians who had no part in what they were about to witness.

But then, just as Coulson told him, "Take the shot, agent," she turned, lifted her chin, and looked up at where he crouched with a shot ready to fire.

_Lose what it meant to be human._

He lowered the bow, and hoped it wouldn't be too hard to learn to live without SHIELD.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_Nice to see you've decided to rejoin the land of the living._

Each breath was an agony, even with the edges of the pain dulled by what were some pretty heavy drugs, judging by how difficult he was finding it to form thoughts. Clint didn't try to move, simply letting his eyes sweep the room for threats he was in no position to deal with in any case, taking in the single door (closed) and the pair of windows (thick glass, probably bulletproof, offering him no view except of the sky) before settling on Coulson.

_Three broken ribs, deep abrasions on both arms, major blood loss from a leg wound, and a severe concussion._

He remembered, vaguely, fighting, and then falling, and then Coulson's voice screaming in his ear as he lay trapped under rubble until everything went black. He remembered hearing the panic and the fear and the worry that the senior agent never, ever let slip, and hated himself for being the cause of it even while he was overcome with the wonder of Coulson caring. He wouldn't have believed it, and still almost didn't, except that he remembered, too, feeling Coulson's hand clasping his as he'd surfaced from unconsciousness, and he could see the way Coulson's eyes were still full of so much concern it threatened to choke Clint.

_What do I have to do to get you to stop jumping off of buildings, agent?_

He would blame it on the pain medication, later, for even allowing him to hope for this, but in that moment, he couldn't think of what was wrong with hoping. He couldn't think of any reason for him not to flail around a bit until he found Phil's hand and wound their fingers together like it was normal for them, and raised his hand so that the backs of Phil's knuckles brushed his cheek like a caress. He couldn't think of a reason not to smile dopily at Phil's expression of complete surprise and, maybe, just a touch of almost-concealed hope.

"You know I'm not very good at following orders, sir," he pointed out, slurring a bit, and meeting Phil's soft, careful, _hopeful_ blue eyes.

_Then consider it a personal request. Clint._

That sounded like it might be manageable.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_This can't be really real._

Each inhale was a gasp, every exhale a long, shuddering breath or a deep groan than hung in the air between them. The silence between breaths was the slide of skin against skin, and needy moans, and confessions and pleas pressed into skin with lips and tongue and longing for more closeness than was physically possible. 

_This is too much, too good, to be happening._

Clint clung and tugged and allowed himself to be directed, wanting and caring about nothing except for the way Phil seemed to call every nerve ending to attention so that every sensation blazed like wildfire through Clint's veins. He had almost forgotten that there was a world that existed beyond this moment, beyond every sight and sound and touch and taste that he hoped would be engrained in his memory eternally. He wanted only this, always this, nothing except this, drowning out every thought until the only thing there was was Phil.

_When have you ever got what you wanted?_

They shivered and shuddered and touched, sliding hands across sweat-dotted chests and backs and limbs, craving to be closer and closer and closer, until they finally found themselves curled together like they were one body and one thought that was nothing more than bliss. They held each other as ecstasy rolled in them and through them and between them and around them, and Phil pressed his lips to Clint's like he was trying to banish every fear and insecurity.

"I could hear you thinking," Phil whispered into Clint's hair. "I'm here, I promise, I'm not leaving any time soon. I'm yours for as long as you'll have me."

_He's lying, he'll leave, they all leave, haven't you learned?_

Clint smiled and kissed him back, and tried to believe.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_If you like piña coladas..._

Clint belted out the lyrics gustily, huffing a laugh when he saw Phil rolling his eyes affectionately. Clint had claimed control of the radio for the trip from Puente Antiguo, which meant that, instead of Phil's preferred big band, secret agent-style jazz, Clint kept flipping through radio stations until he found a song he knew and could sing along to, sacrificing quality for enthusiasm.

_And getting caught in the rain..._

While Jimmy Buffett sang about personal ads and New Mexico flashed past, Clint wondered what exactly the hell his life was due to become. A scientist-turned monster tearing up Harlem, Tony Stark having an existential crisis, and an actual fucking god landing in the middle of the desert, all in one week. What's more, they'd been told the night before that Captain fucking America was being de-iced in SHIELD's New York facility, and Phil's reaction to that news had been memorable. The sheer delight on his face and his near-incoherent reply to Fury on the phone had been adorable, and almost enough to let Clint forget that before Fury'd called, they'd been _busy_ , fuck you very much.

_If you're not into yoga..._

He grinned happily at the senior agent in the driver's seat, and didn't miss Phil's returning smile. His eyes were focused on the road ahead of them as they sped—seriously, _sped_ , the man needed to schedule time for a mid-life crisis and buy a sports car already—through an empty landscape, but he looked content and his fingers were twined with Clint's over the gearshift. Their week had been absolute hell, and they were en route to the airport to head back to New York for even more chaos and confusion, but, for now, Clint was okay.

At least for now, even if the world was descending into unknowns at an alarming rate, they had this, long car trips and convenience store donuts and Clint singing badly just to make Phil smile.

_If you have half a brain..._

For now, it was enough.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_You have heart._

With every breath, the blue crawled deeper, filling his lungs and his heart and his blood until his body was coursing with cold. It held him inescapably, numbed him to the center, took him over so completely that he didn't even feel it. There was nothing left in him to feel.

_You have heart._

He followed orders, like he'd always done. He followed orders and took shots and was mercifully free of any doubt. There was no fear or confusion or conflict or conscience, no reason to feel anything except the satisfaction of a well-placed shot. He didn't ask questions, because he didn't need to. He didn't need anything, except for his bow in his hands and an arrow on the string and the next target that the cube showed him, illuminated so that he could see it even through the fog that filled him.

_You have heart._

What did it matter if the next target was SHIELD itself, if the Tesseract ordered him to aim at the only home he'd known in so long, if he was firing at men and women who had been his teammates and his friends? None of it mattered. Nothing mattered. He had orders, and he followed them, and there was nothing else. Nothing within him or without him, nothing he could not be or had to be. There was nothing.

And, in the heart of the ice, Clint Barton screamed at his own treachery and the marionette that he had become, screamed until his soul wanted to give out.

_You have heart._

Not anymore.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_Clint... Phil didn't make it._

And just like that, he couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He couldn't feel. Not the apathetic numbness of Loki's control, but a malicious burning that swept through him and stripped away every reclaimed feeling until all that was left was aching. Aching like the heart that Loki had noticed and that Loki had tried to claim had been carved out of his chest completely.

_He tried to face Loki alone._

Alone. Phil had been alone, and Clint should have been with him, should have _always_ been with him, but Clint had been too weak to fight Loki and so Phil had been alone like he never should have been. He'd been too weak and he hadn't been there and now Phil was gone. Gone. Phil hadn't made it, wasn't there anymore, would never smile at Clint again or yell at Clint again after Clint did something stupid or hold Clint tightly in the dark and amidst tangled sheets while their breaths mingled and Clint wished he had the guts to tell Phil how much he needed him.

 _It was Loki. Loki, not you. Don't you_ dare _blame yourself for this._

It was, it was his fault, it was because of him, because he'd failed Phil and look what it had done. He had led Loki into SHIELD, he had shown Loki where to hit them the hardest, where to make them bleed the most. And he had. He had made them bleed and now Clint was sure that he was bleeding, could feel himself bleeding around the shards of himself, shards that hadn't been pieced together right after they'd broken and never would be, because Phil was gone.

But now there was a world to save, a mad god to stop, a planet to protect because Phil used to look at him like he believed that Clint was a hero.

_I'm sorry, Clint._

So Clint would be a hero.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_So, you should definitely move into the Tower._

Clint sat up, inhaling sharply when the movement jostled his tender ribs, to see Tony Stark leaning against the doorframe of the medical examination room Clint had been placed in after they'd come back from shawarma. The billionaire looking uncharacteristically out of place, subdued and possibly even a little bit awkward. He had fared better than Clint or Rogers or Natasha, but he still looked battered and bruised and exhausted. Clint could relate.

_I invited Bruce and Rogers and Natasha, too, and Thor after he hauls his brother's ass off-planet._

Stark shrugged carelessly, hands in his pockets and his red-tinted sunglasses covering up most of the gash on his cheek. He would have denied it even under the most invasive tortures, but Phil had always liked Stark, for all the headaches and expensive damage that he caused. Clint remembered the way the senior agent used to sigh and roll his eyes, but fight to hide a smile whenever Hill or Sitwell complained about Iron Man's latest stunt. Phil, almost alone of everyone in SHIELD, had believed that Stark had it in him to be a hero.

_Figured it'd be a good idea to have us all in one place for when the next bad guy in a cape shows up._

He wondered what Phil would have thought of this, of the team coming together to save the world. He wondered what Phil would have thought about fighting alongside Captain America. He wondered, too, what Phil would have thought of all of them fighting for him, for the noble Son of Coul or for Coulson, first name Agent, or for the man in the suit who'd had mint condition trading cards tucked away in his locker, or for just Phil, the man who drove like a maniac on empty highways late at night.

The Avengers had been Fury's idea, but they had been Coulson's ideal, his dream and his hope and, in the end, his last-ditch chance to save the world.

_Since we're, y'know, a team now._

So Clint said yes.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_I'm not going to make any bullshit excuses. It was a necessary call._

Breathe. Breathe through the sudden resurgence of pain that had only just begun to fade, breathe through the shock, breathe through the sheer suffocating joy, breathe in deep enough to fill up the hollowness that had been haunting for days, that had been haunting since him. Breathe in, breathe out, try not to drown under the weight of everything that threatened to topple all at once. Breathe.

_You needed the push. We had a world to save, and I'm not going to apologize for getting your heads out of your asses._

While Clint tried to force his lungs to draw breath, the rest of his team virtually exploded. Thor shot to his feet, shouting about honor and deceit, while Natasha spat violent-sounding curses in Russian. Rogers actually stood in front of the director and demanded to know what had happened to integrity, as Stark threatened Fury with financial ruin and Bruce closed his eyes and concentrated on taking deep breaths. It would be almost amusing, actually, the outraged heroes all getting more and more excited and angry, except that Clint was just struggling not to collapse.

_Welcome to SHIELD._

That was amusing, too, almost, the bitter, annoyed tone of Fury's words distorting the same thing that Phil had said to him, all those years ago, when he'd just been a calm man in a nice suit with a soothing voice and an offer that had saved Clint's life. Fury meant it as almost a warning, reminding the Avengers that these were the kinds of calls that he would make unrepentantly, and for them not to expect anything different, but Phil had acted like SHIELD had been a saving grace. Phil... Jesus Christ.

"Where is he?" Clint managed to choke out, and everyone else's shouting stopped when he did. He didn't look at them, just stared straight at Fury while his world spun. "Where is he?"

_Med bay. Still unconscious, but I don't expect that'll stop you._

He was right.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

\- - -

Breathe in, breathe out.

_He was far too still, too many wires and tubes attaching him to too many machines._

"Please, Phil, just, just keep breathing. Don't stop yet. You already died on me one time, and I almost couldn't handle it. Fuck, I still don't know how I did. So don't let go yet, please, I need you to stick around for a while longer. I can't live without you. Please just don't leave me again."

_The heart monitor beeped regularly, a sound that would have been annoying if it hadn't meant that Phil was still here, still alive._

"You're probably going to figure this out as soon as you wake up—and you have to, please—but we won. We did it. As a team, like I know you hoped, you massive dork. It was like something out of a comic book, I swear, with Captain America punching bad guys and everything. We managed to save the world, right in the nick of time, so if you could please just wake up now so you can see it and blush when Rogers salutes you or some shit because he will, he's just as cheesy and old-fashioned and sappy as you always dreamed he would be."

_Phil's fingers were cold, held between Clint's hands, and he pressed them to his lips as if fairy tales were real and a kiss could be enough to fix anything._

"I know I... I'm the most emotionally constipated person in the world. I make Tony fucking Stark look well-adjusted, I know, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm too much of a coward to admit it or say anything, and it's stupid, because it's not any less true if I don't say it out loud. I'm sorry that I'm so much of a fuck up, and I know you'd tell me I'm not, but I am, and I'm so scared that you're going to wake up and realize that that I've been so stupid for way too long.

"I love you Phil, I do, and you probably knew that already because you know fucking everything, but I really need you to wake up now so that I can say that for real.'

_Eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, and then Phil was looking at him with hazy, beautiful blue eyes, and Clint smiled and tried not to cry._

"Nice to see you've decided to join the land of the living, sir."

Breathe in.

Breathe out.


End file.
